


the devil wants to know

by boleynqueens



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, F/M, Gen, High School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7372144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The school's pretty evenly divided up between the Wealth and the Scholarships.<br/>Claire Temple and Trish Walker, cheerleaders, best friends, and the two that rule the school together (but their reign is gentle and kind, this certainly isn't 'Heathers', nothing like the catty teen queen bullshit on after-school specials Matt hears when he flips through the channels), are of the Wealth.<br/>Marci's of the Wealth, and so is Karen.<br/>The wealthiest of the Wealth is Elektra Natchios, a total enigma, totally fascinating to him in that regard (whenever she passes him in the hall he's overtaken with the scent of orchids, he sat behind her in class once and became almost dizzy with it but he…didn't mind).<br/>Foggy and Matt are of the Scholarships, obviously (suffice it to say the Upper East Side is a long train ride from Hell's Kitchen).<br/>Vanessa Marianna is on an art scholarship, Frank Castle is on an athletics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the devil wants to know

**Author's Note:**

> "Our hearts are too ruthless to break  
> Let’s start fires for heaven’s sake  
> So let’s be sinners to be saints  
> And let’s be winners by mistake"  
> \---Lauren Aquilina
> 
> "Heaven help me for the way I am  
> Save me from these evil deeds before I get them done...  
> So what would an angel say the devil wants to know?"  
> \---Fiona Apple  
> \--  
> St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes. Seemed very...Daredevil, to me.

**2002**

Matt Murdock is seventeen years old.

He has finished the paperwork from the public school he's attended in Hell's Kitchen to transfer to St. Jude's Academy, a private Catholic school on the Upper East Side.

It's two weeks into September, and he'd be dreading it if he didn't know his best friend will be there, right by his side, to guide him through.

Here are the things he knows for certain:

> 1.) Foggy Nelson is his neighbor and his best friend. He has been, ever since 7th grade, when some jackass thought it'd be funny to leave an open porno magazine on Matt's desk so that the teacher would 'catch' him, and Foggy ratted said jackass out. Marci is kind of like his…friend-in-law? But only because she's Foggy's girlfriend. And also; not really, because she won't deign to come to Hell's Kitchen. He's only ever talked to her when he's rode the train, in protest, with Foggy, to whatever Starbucks she wants to meet at, or Serendipity.
> 
> 2.) Karen Page is his friend, but only because _she's_ Foggy's best (friend that is a girl, not girlfriend, apparently they tried that for a week and ended up basically laughing it off) friend. Not that he wouldn't talk to her if she wasn't, just that…he's pretty sure their paths wouldn't have crossed without their mutual friend. She's way cooler than Marci, more considerate and kind. For example: despite the fact that she's as wealthy as Marci, she's willing to meet at halfway points between Hell's Kitchen and the Upper East Side, _unlike_ Marci's elitist insistence on Upper East Side locations only.
> 
> 3.) He only got this scholarship to St. Jude's because he's blind. It was a disability scholarship. That's really the only reason; no matter _what_ his dad says.
> 
> 4.) Jack Murdock is _so_ goddamn grateful to Foggy for telling him about the disability scholarship and getting the admissions paperwork from the office that he might just buy Foggy a slice from Sal's, every night, for the rest of his life.

"Let me help with you with that."

"Dad," Matt says, swatting his hand away from his neck with a laugh, "I got it."

"It's a fancy school! You don't want you tie to be all lopsided, Matty!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he says, smirking.

"You know what I mean…wow. You look very handsome," Jack says, hands on his son's shoulders, "I figured I should let you know that. Since, y'know…you don't know."

"Jesus," Matt says, leaning out of his dad's grasp and down to the card table to the left of him, feeling for the pop-tart on his paper plate, "yeah, I'm _aware_."

"Don’t' swear," he says, gruffly, "it's a Catholic school, for God's sake."

" _You_ just did," Matt points out, mouth full of jam and pastry.

"Don't be smart," Jack snaps, "and raise your arm."

He does, lets his dad slide the strap of his book-bag over it. It's not like he needs his help with that anymore, hasn't since he was a kid, the first year after he lost his sight, but…it's comforting, and it's a routine.

"I'm real proud of you, y'know?"

"Thanks, Dad."

"Hey, and don't let _anyone_ ," he says; Matt sees the motion in what it is he _can_ see, the blur of outlines and shifting color ( _world on fire_ ) that exists in between the world of the sighted and the world of the blind, one he's never been able to explain…one he's never even tried to. _Who would believe him if he did?_

Aided by the heightened senses (ditto, something he's never told anyone about…that they go beyond what other blind people have told him they experience…no one else, he's pretty sure, _for example_ , can hear heartbeats) sometimes he thinks he notices more than those with 20/20 vision.

But, _anyway_ , he hears the swish, even the muscles that tighten, sees the slight movement against his dad's ribs and knows he's crossed his arms as he continues:

"Don't let anyone tell you that you don't deserve this. You're _so_ smart, Matty. You did good, and it's why you got this. And make sure they accommodate you, give you all the same stuff they give the other kids in Braille….they _gotta_. It's the law, I read about it. Americans with Disabilities--"

"Act, yeah, I know."

"Well," he says, ruffling his hair, "of course you do. I'm just sayin'. Don't let them get away with that if they try, alright? Tell them they'll have Battlin' Jack Murdock to deal with if they even _think_ about it."

"Yeah," Matt says, rolling his eyes ( _hey, hey, hey…blind people roll their eyes, alright? or, they do if they weren't always blind. they know what exasperation means from experience,_ and as a bonus his dad can't see him do it behind the sunglasses), "okay."

Knocking ensues, tapped out in the code Foggy's developed so Matt knows it's him if his dad's not home to look through the peephole (theirs isn't the… _safest_ neighborhood, to say the least): five loud knocks, five second pause, three soft ones.

"My chariot awaits," Matt says, nodding towards the door.

He holds his hand out and feels his dad hand him his cane, smooth and cool against his skin, grasps it.

"Knock em' dead!" Jack calls out.

"Your coffee's starting to burn!" Matt yells back.

"Ah, _shit_ …"

* * *

It's been two weeks since Matt's started at St. Jude's, and here's what he knows so far:

> 1.) The school's pretty evenly divided up between the Wealth and the Scholarships.

Claire Temple and Trish Walker, cheerleaders, best friends, and the two that rule the school together (but their reign is gentle and kind, this certainly isn't _Heathers_ , nothing like the catty teen queen bullshit on after-school specials Matt hears when he flips through the channels), are of the Wealth.

Marci's of the Wealth, and so is Karen.

The wealthiest of the Wealth is Elektra Natchios, a total enigma, totally fascinating to him in that regard (whenever she passes him in the hall he's overtaken by the scent of orchids, he sat behind her in class once and became almost dizzy with it but he…didn't mind). He figures she's gorgeous, even if he didn't see the confident sway of her walk in the blur, or hear the heart rates that rise whenever she appears, he'd know it well enough by the way conversations stop mid-sentence. The way the female voices become tinged with awe and envy and the way the male voices fall into deeper registers of lust and desire (well…for the most part. Matt's learned, from his eavesdropping over the years, that while heterosexuality might be common, it's certainly not the end-all-be-all… _but more on that later_ ).

Foggy and Matt are of the Scholarships, obviously (suffice it to say the Upper East Side is a _long_ train ride from Hell's Kitchen).

Vanessa Marianna is on an art scholarship, Frank Castle is on an athletics.

> 2.) Mr. Fisk, the headmaster, is a bona fide _asshole_. The assistant headmaster, Mr. Wesley, is basically Fisk's bitch.

How does Matt know this? Well, the _fat asshole_ (yeah, he _knows_ he's fat, and even if he couldn't see the outline of the width of the man's girth, he can hear the utterly heavy thud of his footsteps) heart rate is usually a slow, sluggish beat.

The only time it races is when he's chastising a student for some infraction, or doling out discipline.

Matt gets the sense that he goes _out of his way_ to do so, that Wesley does the same _for_ him.

That's not even the worst of it, though (or _maybe it is,_ both of these realities are _pretty fucking terrifying_ ): the only other time his heart rate goes up is when Vanessa Marianna walks past him.

_Gross_.  

> 3.) Claire Temple is really nice to him. But then, she's really nice to everyone, so he doesn't really think he's special in that regard.

On a Friday, she leans against her locker and says hi, warmth in her voice. He returns the greeting, is about to ask 'how are you' when he hears the plastic click of buttons over her cell phone, and decides to wait until she's done.

Then he overhears another junior, a guy, one of the Wealth, make a poor attempt at flirting. Her heart beats an average pace, the only effect this has on her is mild irritation.

Matt's about to tell this guy to fuck off because Claire's made it _pretty_ clear to him to fuck off herself (but then, guys like _this_ _always_ pretend that rejection's a language they just don't understand) when he notices something… _interesting_.

He smells turpentine and pastel and paint, hears the swish and jangle of earrings he recognizes (he had asked her what was making the sound in Geography class, and she had laughed, a lovely, musical laugh, and told him he could feel them if he wanted…he did, found that they were made of little metal coins, and complimented them, "they feel like they're pretty", and she laughed again and thanked him), and knows it's Vanessa.

"Hi, Matt!" she says, and he waves in response.

Claire's heart beat started racing the second he smelled the turpentine.

> 4.) Trish Walker is really nice, too. She must be pretty; apparently she's an actress and a model, sometimes leaves class early for auditions.

Her heart races when her phone buzzes or rings or dings a text message in between classes. When she picks up the phone she always starts with, "Mom?"

Her voice is always heavy with fear and nervousness when she picks up.

Matt wonders if anyone else picks up on that (knows they probably don't; the thought makes his heart hurt).

Here's the thing: the most obvious things are sometimes…not so obvious at all.

Here's an example: Trish Walker is dating Will Simpson.

The head cheerleader dating the quarterback. How quintessential Americana can you get?

Her heart never races around him.

Besides the phone calls, the only time her heart races is when he hears the thud of combat boots and smells the leather, sometimes the fresh nail polish (she paints it on during class sometimes, behind her textbooks, he asked what color it was and she had startled, taken a long pause and then, probably noticing the cane and sunglasses…she had answered 'black', and that, so far, has been their only conversation), sometimes the cigarette smoke, of Jessica Jones.

> 5.) Frank Castle is…quiet.

Probably the most quiet person he's ever met. Monosyllabic, if anything at all.

But he's the track star of the school, has been since last year, apparently. Runs a five-minute mile every goddamn time they have to run it in P.E. ( _show-off_ , Matt thinks, panting as he drinks his Gatorade after his 12-minute one).

He _must_ drink coffee. Like, an _insane_ amount of coffee, for a teenager. Matt is always overpowered by the smell of it whenever he's near the guy, wonders if he sticks his hands into a bag of ground coffee or something, if he works as a barista before school, or _what_.

But despite this, Frank's heart rate is not really…that fast. So he must have developed a tolerance to caffeine, something like that, Matt's not really sure (it's not like he's a cardiologist, just a walking stethoscope).

He's never heard his heart race, except once.

It's a Wednesday morning, and he and Karen are walking along the grass, making their way to the bleachers so that they can eat their donuts outside in the sun before class starts. Matt holds the bag of pastries, stomach growling in hunger, the smell of sugar and deep-fried dough kicking his appetite into high gear.

Matt can make something out that's in her way as she walks backwards, gesticulating as she tells him about the story she's working on for the school paper (Mr. Urich is the one that runs it, and he's also their English teacher, and definitely Matt's favorite teacher so far). He can't warn her, though since that would give away the whole _'world on fire'_ thing and she wouldn't get it ( _no one gets it_ ). So he watches, helplessly, as she runs into someone, hears her books fall from her arms.

"Oh my God! I'm _so_ sorry, I didn't see you!" Karen says, "are you okay?"

"Here," Frank says, Matt hears the books being passed, the swish of hardback covers against skin.

"Sorry, again, I--"

"Ma'am," he says, quietly, before walking past them, carrying the scent of cinnamon, and the coffee he had this morning ( _coffee **and** milk **and** sugar_ , _aha, ha, **ha**_ , _he's not so badass_ , _after all_ , Matt thinks, smugly), with him.

"Did he… just…"

"Shut up," Karen groans, sitting on the first row of the bleachers.

"Did he just," Matt says, unable to suppress his laughter, "call you ' _ma'am_ '?"

"Shut _up_ ," she mumbles, now, her voice sounding muffled, like it's coming through her hands, "pass me a donut."

Matt takes his own, sniffing it before selecting it, ( _maple bar, score_ ), before holding out the bag.

"Um…where are you?"

"Oh, God, sorry, I forgot!" she says gets up and nudges it from his hand, gently, "here, do you need me to help you…"

"Nah," he says, feeling where the bench is with his cane before sitting down, "just scooch next to me, I'll be fine."

"'Ma'am,'" Karen mutters, under her breath, " _honestly_ ," then, at a louder volume, "I mean, if someone doesn't know your name, can't they just _ask_?"

"Does he… _always_ call you that?"

"Yes!"

" _Well_ ," Matt teases, laughing even as she swats him on the shoulder, "that is _very_ polite!"

"Whatever," she says, then, plaintively, "he like…hates me, or something. I don't know why. I don't know what I ever did to _him_."

Matt smirks before he bites into his donut (being blind sucks sometimes, being drowned out by chatter and heartbeats and police sirens and not knowing how to drown them out, sucks, but at least it makes the experience of sugar _so_. _much_. _better_ ).

" _Yeah_ ," he says, feeling inside his jacket for a tissue, "I don't think he…hates you."

Given the way his heart stuttered upon what he assumes was some sort of contact (the brushing of the hands, and definitely upon the collision), kept the hummingbird beat even as Frank walked towards the school, he _very_ much doubts Frank Castle hates Karen Page.

Given the way Karen's heart stuttered the exact same beat, their heartbeats perfectly in sync, actually, Matt could very well use this opportunity to play Cupid.

He's not going to, though.

_Let **them** figure it out_.

> 6.) Elektra Natchios is…

Something otherworldly.

He doesn't know _how_ he knows this, but he _knows_.

She has a British accent, and a voice like a river running over stones. Even when she speaks in honeyed tones, there's an edge underneath it.

Her father's a diplomat, he thinks. Something that keeps him out of the country a lot, and he either makes millions from that or has millions from old money, possibly both.

It's the junior lunch period, around noon when he remembers he left his headphones in his locker. He had promised Foggy he'd let him listen to a CD he just bought.

Everyone had jumped up, asking him if he needed help, and he waved them off, said he needed to learn and gauge the distance to it, anyway, that he could feel the outline of the numbers with his fingers.

He stops when he hears a string of Greek words, her voice, before he hears her the beep that ends the phone call.

"Can I help you?" she asks, coolly.

"Sorry," he says, shaking his head, "just…"

"Yes?"

"I like…listening to your voice."

Silence. Nothing but her heartbeat, steady and slow.

She laughs, the sound pealing through the relative emptiness of the hall.

" _Christ_ , what a line," Elektra says, he hears her unzip her bag, "I see you don't let the whole 'blind' thing stand in your way, huh?"

"Try not to," he says, feeling slightly off-kilter, especially when he hears her bag drop to the floor, the clack of her boots as she moves closer to him.

" _Matthew_ ," she says, slow and condescending, " _see_ , when you flirt with someone, it's not really fair to be _all offended_ when that someone calls you out on the fact that you _did_."

"Matt."

"Pardon?"

"My name," he says, enunciating each syllable, "is. _Matt_. Which I'm _pretty_ sure you know."

"Mmm…yeah… _no_."

"'No'?" he asks, incredulous, clenching his jaw.

"'Matt' is something you would call…a puppy. And _you_ , are definitely not that. You just want people to _think_ that you are."

"Oh? And what am I?" he challenges, tilting his chin upwards.

"You're _very_ good at reading people. I've noticed."

"I…you have?"

"I'm very good at it, too. And what I read is that you're someone that's always ready to bite," Elektra says, "someone that always wants to. A wolf. Just like me. The only difference between you and me," she continues, close enough to whisper in his ear, "is that _I_ don't try to hide it."

"Hide that," he says, shoulders shaking with laughter, "that you want to…what was it…'bite' people? What, do you want to bite _me_?"

"Yes," she says, silkily, "I _do_. Do you want me to?"

"Do _I_ …"

He doesn't feel like laughing anymore, suddenly.

Somehow it doesn't seem funny, not anymore, as he feels heat that emanates from her body, can tell from what he can gauge, that they're the same height, that her face is very, _very_ close to his.

His breath hitches in his throat as he feels hers, warm on his face. Her nose, brushing against the bridge of his.

Matt reaches for her with his free hand, (the other still holds his walking stick but when she runs a hand along the plane of his chest he drops that, too, drops _it_ as well as any ability to mock, any ability to think at all) slowly, smoothing it over her hair, glossy to the touch.

Her mouth hovers next to his, brushes it, almost a kiss but not quite.

And finally, finally, for the first time, he hears her heart beat quickly. It feels like a victory.

That is, until she bites him, hard, on his lower lip, so fast that he doesn't process the pain until she's pulled away. 

"What the _hell_?" he snaps, feels her put his cane in his hand.

"Dropped this," Elektra whispers, then he hears her walk away, kneel, lift her bag from the floor and slam her locker shut.

" _Bye_ , Matthew."

* * *

He traces the spot she bit, still sore, with the pads of his fingers as he lies in bed that night, restless.

He's been trying and failing to fall asleep for the last hour.

It was really nothing, nothing that deserves the over-analysis he's giving it.

So her heart raced-- _so fucking what_? Maybe that was just excitement over _fucking with him_.

_It wasn't even a kiss_.

So he shouldn't be thinking about it.

Shouldn't be thinking about the way her chest was only inches from his, almost pressed against it, the scant distance between them, the tremor in his hand as he caressed her hair. Shouldn't be thinking about how he almost drowned in the orchids surrounding the air surrounding her, the way he wanted to stay there and _keep drowning_.

Thinking about such a chaste, clothed encounter; such an almost-something, barely-anything, should _not_ be giving him a hard-on.

That sort of reaction is _not_ justified.

And yet….

And _yet._

> _'Bye, Matthew...'_

_Bye, Matthew, indeed._  


End file.
